


Not So Hard Once You Read the Directions

by bluetoast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weechesters. John has the flu over Thanksgiving and wee Dean not only takes care of him, but looks after Sammy, too. John's pretty out-of-it for a day or two. When he gets a little better, he realizes that Dean has been sick most of that time, too. He's guilty and grateful and finally lets Dean rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Hard Once You Read the Directions

When he looked back over the incident, John decided that it was worth investing in some long underwear and checking the weather before tramping out into the wilds of Western North Dakota in November on the trail of a werewolf ever again. Sure, he'd known it was going to be cold, but he didn't think it'd get so damn cold he'd been half frozen when he stumbled back to the Impala with the task finished and when he threw the heat on – he was going to find out what that rattling in the dashboard was one of these days – it didn't seem to help for at least half an hour. Maybe he'd already been sick when he'd headed out on the hunt. Hunting sick was one of the worst things you could do – maybe not as bad as hunting drunk or injured, but still pretty stupid. So when he got back to the motel room, congested, achy and rotten feeling in general, John had two items on his to do list: get a shower, go to bed. 

The motel room is pretty much the way he left it – salt lines down and things are mostly picked up. It's late, nearly one and the dull noise of a rerun of M*A*S*H droned from the television. Sitting on the couch, almost exactly where he left them – are his boys. The only difference seems to be that Dean's wearing a different shirt. “Sport, what are you still doing up?” 

Dean looked over at his dad, blinking tiredly. “Sammy's sick.” 

“That makes two of us then...” John's too tired and too miserable to think about his little boy's illness – not just yet. “I'm going to get cleaned up and go to bed... you try and get some rest too, okay Dean?”

“Yes, dad.” Dean replied, blinking sleepily at his father. 

When John comes back out of the shower, the television is still on, but now Sammy's been moved to the other bed and Dean's wringing out a washcloth and setting it on the boy's forehead. “You need anything Dad?”

John shook his head and climbed into the other bed. “I'll be fine, Dean.. just need some rest.”

For a few minutes, Dean sat on the bed he and his brother were now going to be sharing – that's no problem. He listened to his brother's weak inhale and exhale – the sound reminded Dean of an injured animal – and then his dad's sick snores joined the chorus – not as wrenching as his brother's – but just as congested and worn. Dean sniffled, climbed off the bed and went into the bathroom. He'd been watching Sammy for just two days and he'd been sick most of that time. It'd started off as just a little cold but had transformed into full on flu yesterday morning. He washed his face in cold water, trying to ignore his own chill and went to pull on another layer of clothing – he now had five shirts and three pairs of socks on – and he was still getting chilled. It was his job to look out for Sammy, Sammy was only seven. Dean could look after him – and now, he'd have to look after dad as well. This couldn't be so bad, because dad didn't look all that sick – at least, not as bad as Sammy seemed to be.

Dean was wrong. Dad was _very_ sick – not hospital sick, but so damn sick he couldn't keep much straight – considering the fact that he'd called Dean by a slew of names he'd never heard of before. He also couldn't keep much down, except liquids. Sammy wasn't in much better shape than dad. It was late in the afternoon when he'd gotten both of them settled down again – and cleaned out the trashcan half a dozen times each, when he finally curled up on the couch, still feeling pretty lousy – he figured he was just tired. He absently nibbled on a slice of sandwich bread – the lunch-meat dad had bought at the beginning of the week was long gone and they were also out of peanut butter. Dean figured this had to be, hands down, the second worst Thanksgiving of his life. First going to the one right after his mom died, but he can remember his dad making some effort that day – even though dinner had been furnished from Kentucky Fried – but it beat meal furnished from Swanson's. 

“Dean?” Sammy called weakly from his bed.

“I'm coming...” He put down the half eaten slice of bread and padded over to his brother. “You gonna be sick again?”

“No...” He coughed weakly. “I'm cold.”

“Okay, Sammy... I'll be right back.” He went back over to the couch, picked up the blanket – the last blanket they had unless he went out and got the one from the trunk of the Impala and pulled it over his brother, tucking it around him best he could. “That help?”

“Some.” He blinked. “I'm tired of being sick.”

“I bet you are.” Dean said in response, brushing his brother's forehead with his thumb. “I'm going to go get some more ice and then I'll be back, okay?”

“Okay, Dean.” Sam shut his eyes sleepily. “When's dad gonna get back?”

“Dad is back, Sammy.. he's sick too.”

“Oh.” Sam coughed again and closed his eyes. “'S Thanksgiving, isn't it?”

“Yeah, yeah it is...” He tucked the blankets under his brother's chin. “Try and get some sleep, you'll feel better soon.”   
At full health, it would have taken Dean five minutes to go down to the office area of the motel, collect bucket of ice and come back. But the cold, the stiffness and the added bonus of the beginnings of a blizzard made it almost ten. When he got back to the room, locked the door and reinforced the salt lines, it was a miracle he was still standing. He checked on Sam – sleeping. Dad, however, was blinking at the wall and making faces at it. “Dad, you okay?”

“The television's stuck on the same station.” He made another face. “Change the channel, Dean... see if you can find a game...”

“Dad, the television is on the other side of the room.” He went and rung out a washcloth and then put it on his dad's forehead. “That's the wall.”

John blinked and then turned his focus to the ceiling. “Dean, make sure I never buy this type of cold medicine again.” He winced at the sound of the wind, which chose that exact moment to start roaring. “You didn't give Sammy any of this, did you?”

“No sir, just the Children's Tylenol like I'm supposed to.”

“Good job, Dean-o.” John shut his eyes again. “Few more hours... we've got to get to Bobby's house for Thanksgiving... forgot to tell you he invited us...”

Dean sighed softly and went back to washing his father's face. Now he's seriously bummed out – Uncle Bobby was an _awesome_ cook. But it can't be helped so he just keeps doing the best he can. That night all John does is throw up and all Sam does is whine. By the end of it, all Dean wanted to do was crawl onto the couch and cry. The bread is gone, the crackers are gone – the orange juice is gone too and with the way the weather is, good luck getting to the market, even if it is only across two parking lots and one semi-busy road. The weather seems to be the only somewhat cooperative thing at this point. The blizzard had the decency to just drop seven inches of snow, half of what was predicted – and even if was ten below, at least it was mostly warm in the room. He'd gone out to get the emergency blanket from the Impala before it'd gotten really bad, but Dean had given that up when his dad got cold too – so now he was using the family's coats for blankets when he laid down on the couch. He just needed thirty minutes... he'd lie down, close his eyes and just take half an hour... he shivered and pulled his dad's leather jacket closer to him, thinking how great he'd feel in thirty minutes. 

Then he'd so some serious bundling up and trudge to the market – Sammy needed orange juice and dad needed broth and...  
*  
John woke up around nine in the morning feeling considerably better than he had any other day of the week. The snowstorm is over, judging from the fact that the wind no longer sounds like an evil hell-beast and there's no tale-tell sound of snow or rain lashing against the window. It's quiet, peaceful and so blessedly warm in the room right now – too warm, actually – and he sat up and started folding back three of the... he frowned. There were five layers of blankets on his bed. No wonder he'd been so toasty. He rubbed his face – the only problem he's got at the moment is that he's hungry. He's not had all that much to eat that he could keep down in the past few days – he's not even sure of what all there is left to eat.

Sam sits up in the other bed, rubbing his eyes. “Dean?” 

John looks around the quiet motel room, the only sound is the clanking of the heater. “He's probably sleeping on the couch, Sam.” He turned in the bed, groaning. “How you feeling?”

“Okay.” He yawned. “I'm thirsty.”

“Dean? Dean can you get Sammy some water?” The only thing that responded to his call was the thrum of the heater and what might have been a muffled 'okay, dad.' But after a full five minutes, there was no further response and his eldest didn't appear out of the bathroom or from the couch. Groaning, John got slowly out of bed – judging from the looks of things, if Dean was still sleeping, then he had every right go right on doing that. He estimates he's probably seventy percent better, and hell, he can get his boy a glass of water. Despite the fact John knows he and Sammy have been puking up almost everything they've tried to put in their stomachs – the place is reasonably clean. His oldest has been doing a hell of a job taking care of the two of them. He made his way slowly to the kitchenette, his muscles stiff and sore from lying down for nearly two days. “You stay in bed Sammy, I'll bring you some water.” Lying on the counter, next to the room keys is a couple of dollar bills and a shopping list. Funny, it looked as if Dean had been getting ready to leave the room to fill up on some supplies and for some reason had just decided not to – although given how the wind sounded yesterday afternoon, who could blame him? 

A faint chill wracked his body, causing John to shudder, but it wasn't much – he'd just crawl back into bed in a few minutes. He let out a grunt and took one of the glasses drying on a worn towel next to the sink and held it under the running tap. John knew he'd probably be better functioning after a cup or two of coffee. The cold medicine he'd taken, in addition to making him practically incoherent, had done a good job of kicking his congestion's ass. He shut off the water and was about to start back to the beds when he finally caught sight of Dean. 

To his credit, he didn't drop the glass he was holding, but it wasn't easy. “Dean?” He set the cup down and went over to the couch where his eldest was sleeping... well, it was either sleeping or he was passed out. It was probably the most pathetic thing he'd seen in a while. With the whole of every blanket the Winchesters owned divided on the two beds, there'd not been one left for Dean to use – and it made John's heart lurch when he crouched down and pressed his hand to his boy's forehead. He was a feverish, shivering wreck – using Sam's coat to keep his lower legs warm, his own coat covered him from knee to just past his waist, and John's leather jacket was being used to keep the rest of him warm. In short, Dean had made himself a rather flimsy attempt at a blanket. “Oh shit..”

“What's the matter with Dean?” Sam got out of bed and made his way slowly across the room. He was dizzy from the fact he'd not had anything to eat except crackers and bread for four days. 

“He's sick.” John unwrapped the boy from the coats, noting that his son was also wearing about six layers of clothes on his upper body and several pairs of socks – he's been sick all this time too – He gently picked up the unconscious eleven year old and carried him over to the bed John had just vacated and tucked him under the covers. “Guess this nasty bug is one contagious little sucker...” 

Sam reached the kitchenette and took his glass of water, drinking it slowly. He vaguely remembered his father coming home a day and a half ago – and Dean announcing 'Sammy's sick' not – 'we're sick' or 'I'm sick.' So, by his guess, Dean probably got sicker taking care of him and his dad and not being able to take care of himself at all. He made his way back to bed and set his glass down. “Is he gonna be okay?”

John had managed to get the thermometer out of the first aide kit and had stuck it in the boy's mouth. “I think he just needs some rest – and to stay warm.” He sighed. “Can you go over to his bag and get him a clean shirt?” He asked as he took the device back out and nearly cursed at the reading of one-oh-two.

“I think so...” Sam hadn't laid back down, so he was able to reach the bags with little trouble while John started pulling off layers of sweatshirts and long-sleeved T's from his eldest. “He'll probably be a lot more comfortable without all this on...”

Dean made a feeble attempt at fighting back as his father pulled sweat soaked layer upon layer off of him, leaving him shivering in the cold before another shirt was thrown over his head and he found himself tucked back into the warmth of a bed. He blinked wearily at his father. “Dad, you shouldn't be up yet...”

“Hush Dean...” John brushed his forehead with his thumb. “You've got a pretty bad fever there, sport... so you get some sleep... don't worry about your old man... gonna take a lot more than a forty-eight hour virus to knock me down for long.”

Dean fumbled to get up. “But Sammy...”

“Don't worry about your brother...” John glanced over at Sam, who'd pulled one of the blankets off his own bed and wrapped himself in it, sitting at the foot of Dean's. He kept his hand on his boy's forehead. “Thanks to you, the two of us are much better... now you just focus on getting better yourself.”

“But...” Dean tried to get up again. “Not much food left... store...”

“You are staying in this room until I tell you that it's okay to leave.” John let out a sigh that ended with a cough. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if a fever ridden eleven year old had passed out in the bread isle of the supermarket across the road. If that didn't just scream CPS and never seeing his eldest again. “You been throwing up too?”

Dean shook his head. “No...” He coughed roughly. “I don't think I have what you got...” He hacked again and burrowed under the covers, shivering with a chill.

John thought for a moment – it was perfectly believable that all three of them caught the same cold, but for him and Sam to have the flu and for Dean to have a completely different illness? Didn't seem to likely. 

“Dad?” Sam reached over and tugged on his father's sleeve. “He did throw up... before you came back... I think he got sick first... and was getting better when we got sick, so it just made him sick again...”

John nodded and looked back down at Dean, who was now dozing. “I want you to stay in bed too, Sammy... just for today, all right?”

“Okay...” He uncurled himself from the foot of his brother's bed and went back to his own. “What about you?”

“I've felt worse...” He went and tucked in his youngest. “You need anything?” 

“No, I'm good.” He coughed. “Hungry....”

“Just rest... I'll take care of everything.” He coughed again and started to pick up the shirts of Dean's he'd discarded on the floor, stuffing them into the laundry bag. For the past day and a half, he'd been lying miserable in bed, he'd not even had the guts to drag himself to the bathroom to throw up. Instead, he'd had an eleven year old cleaning up after him, when really, it should have been the other way around. John knew full well he should have tucked his two boys into the same bed and taken care of them, not being taken care of. 

This whole self-sacrificing thing Dean's starting to develop is a little scary to John. Sure, he'd grown used to seeing his oldest give up his portion of the sugary cereal, the last cookie and such to his little brother – but this? His boy taking care of him? That wasn't even borderline wrong, it was wrong. He'd have to see if he could get the boy to start talking to him more – to get honest answers from him when he's asking how he feels. Whereas Sam was a constant complainer when something was wrong – Dean, Dean he clamped up, gritted his teeth and bore it. The very _last_ thing John wanted was for his boy to be seriously ill and not speak up.

*

So it wasn't a full fledged turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Not by a long shot in any way shape or form. It wasn't Colonel Sanders either – but it was the best John could come up with in a small ass town in North Dakota that probably no one but the locals could find on a map. Pasta, John had decided, was one of the greatest foods ever invented – you could top it with just about any type of sauce, depending on the noodle and, best of all – two pounds of spaghetti could feed all three Winchester full – at least for now. John's fully planning on it being four pounds when both of his boys hit puberty and start eating like racehorses. 

“Dad?” Dean said weakly from his bed., awoken by the aroma of something cooking. “What's that smell?”

“It's dinner.” John said. “Hungry?”

“I could eat, yeah...” Dean started to get up, only to find himself propped up on pillows a minute later. “Dad?”

“I want you staying in bed a little while longer...” He ruffled his hair. 

Dean blinked and looked over at Sammy, who was sitting on the couch. “Sam, how long have I been sleeping?”

“Most of the day.” He scrambled off the couch and went to snuggle up next to him. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, shorty... I am.” Dean replied as their dad came back with two bowls, each with a generous helping of spaghetti slathered in Alfredo sauce. “Smells good, dad.”

“Hope it's good.” He handed one bowl to each of his boys. “Careful, it's hot.” He went back to the small kitchenette and returned with his own bowl and a plate full of buttered Wonder Bread. “I know it's not the sort of dinner we should have had but....”

“It's perfect dad.” Dean replied with a worn smile. “Thanks.”

Sam slurped up a strand of pasta, grinning. “It's good 'ghetti, Dad.”

John twirled his fork in his bowl, getting a good mouthful of pasta on it. His mind was already onto the next hunt, the next move and he almost missed the conversation his two boys had right in front of him – knowing that they thought he wasn't paying attention, and he wasn't – but he knew he should have been.

“Dean...I didn't know dad knew how to cook.”

“It's not so hard once you read the directions, Sammy.”

Directions. John wished someone would write directions on how to be a widower raising two boys while hunting monsters. It could help a lot, then he'd know how to handle having the flu while taking care of two equally sick people. Things like school and such would be a breeze – if it could all be laid out in front of him in black and white, it'd be so much easier...

Then again, he never was much for directions anyway. John let out a deep breath an picked up the plate. “You boys want some butter bread?”


End file.
